


So Similar

by Exorin



Series: Like Father, Like Son [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Episode: s02e02 Speak of the Devil, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28909854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exorin/pseuds/Exorin
Summary: Did someone say: a second masturbation fic that happens at the same time as the first one but it’s Martin this time instead of Malcolm? No? Well anyway:With each visit, his son invokes a stronger reaction in his body, and this, the strongest yet.*More spoilers for s02e02: Speak of The Devil
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly, Martin Whitly/Himself
Series: Like Father, Like Son [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120286
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	So Similar

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I'm just gonna continue shouting about how amazing [@Pond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121) is and how lucky I am to have stumbled into the same fandom as them once again. 
> 
> Oh, and also the trash discord. That's pretty fuckin' rad too.

“Did you see that?” Martin asks, not actually looking for an answer—which is fine, since Mr. David likes to keep his commentary to a minimum, only moving close enough to undo the bands around his wrists; leaving him merely tethered to the wall once more. 

“My boy,” he breathes out, rubbing his fingertips along the red edges of his restraint lines, “So determined! So calm. Not a single tremor in sight.” 

His voice goes low, full of awe and reverence when he repeats, _“My boy.”_

Martin takes a step back, turning away from that thin red line that his son slides closer and closer to with every visit. Soon he’ll be right in Martin’s space, unafraid and close enough to touch again. 

_Wanting_ to be touched again.

He can still feel the charge of Malcolm’s last words, rippling electricity tingling at the tips of his fingers and sending pleasant little shocks along his spine. With each visit, his son invokes a stronger reaction in his body, and this, the strongest yet.

In fact, he would guess, ever since he talked his boy through the slow and methodical process of taking a human body apart—limb by limb with nothing more than a few drills and a hand saw—that reaction has been building up, a pressure needing release.

And hadn’t that anatomy lesson been a walk down memory lane. Just an absolute _pleasure._

Malcolm asking him— _him!_ —for help. So scared and worried and desperate for Daddy’s reassurance that everything would be alright, that he was doing well; and _oh_ , he had done so, _so_ well.

Even beneath the whine of the saw, he could hear his son’s panicked breathing evening out, settling into steady calmness, not unlike it had just a few moments ago. 

Only this time Martin had gotten to see, first hand, the slight dilation of Malcolm’s pupils—a perfect transition from that lost little boy into a man to be reckoned with, who demanded to be listened to.

Martin hears his own shaky exhale over the sound of his thoughts and slides his right hand down to palm over his hardening cock. 

“Mr. David,” Martin starts, swallowing down the first quiet moan that’s already building in the back of his throat. He looks over his shoulder to where his attendant has settled into his station inside the room, “I could use a few moments of privacy, would you mind terribly if we cancelled free time a little early today?” 

Martin knows that the man has other things to do then sit quietly in this room with him. Mr. David might enjoy the silence and respite from the rest of the hospital, but surely he’d rather be doing crosswords in his office alone.

Mr. David raises his eyebrow but doesn’t question the request. 

He waits until the door is closed with the heavy lock shoved into place before crossing his room and settling down onto his cot. It’s no king-sized bed with memory foam, but it’s the comfort of home— _for now._

Facing the wall, he hooks his thumbs under the elastic waistband of his white, Claremont-issued trousers; he inches them down slowly over his hips to feel the drag of the fabric, just that little added bit of pressure over the fat length of his thickening cock. 

Martin considers his own suggestion that he’s capable of _possessing_ Malcolm, that Malcolm is susceptible to his own ideals, potentially even his own desires. What, possibly, could his son be doing right now? 

What might their conversation have _compelled_ Malcolm to do.

He brings a hand to his mouth and spits against his palm, heavy and wet—it feels terribly crude. The sound, the damp glob of saliva dribbling down towards his wrist; but everything that’s about to happen is crude. Base. _Primal._

Is Malcolm in the same state that he is?

His son, with his head bowed and his wonderfully steady hand slipping beneath the folds of his pants to feel himself getting hard.

Martin groans, dropping his hand down fast to circle tightly around the heavy weight of his filled out cock. He drags his fist down the whole, long length, twisting his wrist to palm the damp head of his cock and get his precome all mixed up with his spit before jerking the circle of his fingers back towards the thick base. 

His whole body shudders, breath coming out in quick little gasps. 

Losing his composure has never been Martin’s favourite thing—he hates the fog that comes over him after release, the way it dilutes his senses—but there’s something about his son standing in front of him and fighting past his feelings of worry and shame and building up all of his nerve to deliver a _threat._ As if his boy would ever stop visiting. 

As if he could.

His son needs him as much as he—

Martin’s cock throbs up against his palm and he squeezes around the base, staving off the inevitable. He looks down, tilting his hips forward to see past the fuzz of gray hair on his chest and down around the round shape of his belly to get a good look at his wet, leaking cockhead. 

It’s in that moment that he remembers _the birds and the bees,_ his conversation with a much younger Malcolm, and the fact that his son could still very well be uncut; may have never made the decision on his own to get a circumcision. 

Does he think of his father’s words when sliding that thin, smooth and wrinkled skin back over the head of his cock? When he slips his thumb underneath that layer to get himself nice and wet with precome?

Does he remember that he’s perfect? _Immaculate._

That Martin _made_ him that way?

Martin fucks into his fist, he holds his hand steady and let’s his hips do the work. 

He reaches down with his free hand, passes over the hard jut of his cock to curl his fingers around the heat of his balls, fitting his fingers around them and tugging down until his cock jerks again, getting his knuckles wet with more precome. 

He’s so close. 

And Malcolm? How close is he? 

His boy, not a true killer, not yet; but still so similar. 

_“It felt good.”_

He’d said the words and watched the black in Malcolm’s pupils blow wide; both of them knowing it was true. Does Malcolm feel good right now? 

Martin groans, moves his wrist faster, building quick. 

Will his boy come back to him? Flushed and ashamed and wanting?

He tightens the circle of his fist, clenches his fingers and bites down against the thin pillow to muffle the hoarse shout of his son’s name. 

_Malcolm._

**Author's Note:**

> Want some more of this no plot smut/have an sexy thought that won't leave your brain and need someone to just type out a few thousand words of porn? Hit me up on Tumblr at [ex0rin](http://ex0rin.tumblr.com)


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